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"...spirits as they please Can limb themselves, and color, or size assume As likes them best, condense or rare." If he himself, Michael, prince of celestial hosts, could fit his angelic majesty to the likeness of a man, Trevennack could not Satan meet him on his own ground, and try to thwart him as of old in the likeness of a man, Walter Tyrrel his dear boy's murderer.
Eustace reached the bottom of the rock, and, wading in the water himself, or jumping into the deepest parts, helped Cleer across the stepping-stones. Meanwhile, the party on the cliff had hurried down by the gully path; and a minute later Cleer was in her mother's arms, while Trevennack held her hand, inarticulate with joy, and bent over her eagerly.
The orphaned mother clasped her hands. This was too, too much. And Michael, if the fit came upon him, would strangle that young man, who was doing his best after all for Cleer and Eustace! But that night in his bed Trevennack lay awake, chuckling grimly to himself in an access of mad triumph.
It was on this sacred site of his antique cult that Trevennack wished to fight the internal devil. And he would fight it with a will, on that he was resolved; fight and, as became his angelic reputation, conquer.
Trevennack answered, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking proudly before him. "Cleer's future is at stake. Cleer has a lover now. Till Cleer is married, I'll give you my sacred promise no living soul shall ever know in any way she's an archangel's daughter." From that day forth, by some unspoken compact, it was "Eustace" and "Cleer," wherever they met, between them.
"And then," Eustace went on, smiling tacitly at her native simplicity, "as it would mean permanent work in superintending and so forth, I see no reason why we shouldn't get married immediately." They were alone in the breakfast room, where Mrs. Trevennack had left them. They were alone, like lovers.
So Michael Trevennack thought in his own seething soul. But that strong, brave woman, his wife, bearing her burden unaided, and watching him closely day and night with a keen eye of mingled love and fear, could see that the madness was gaining on him gradually. Oftener and oftener now did he lose himself in his imagined world; less and less did he tread the solid earth beneath us. Mrs.
Wait till morning, dear Michael; do, do, wait till morning." And Trevennack, struggling hard with the mad impulse in his heart, replied with all his soul, "I will; I will; for Cleer's sake and yours, I'll try to keep it down. I'll not be mad. I'll be strong and restrain it." For he knew he was insane, in his inmost soul, almost as well as he knew his name was Michael the Archangel.
Michael's Mount, and Penzance, and Marazion, and Mullion here. They owned Penmorgan, too, afore the Tyrrels bought it up. Michael Basset Trevennack, that's the gentleman's full name; the eldest son of the eldest son is always a Michael, to keep up the memory of the times gone by, when they was Guardians of the Mount and St. Michael's Constables. And the lady's Miss Cleer, after St.
Not a word was spoken, but in a certain silent way all four understood one another. "Where's Tyrrel?" Eustace asked. And Mrs. Trevennack answered, "Carried home, severely hurt. He was bruised on the rocks. But we hope not dangerously. The doctor's been to see him, we hear, and finds no bones broken.
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